


Catch-55

by Esmethewitch



Series: Numbered Catches [1]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Armitage Hux is Not Nice, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Dark Comedy, Gen, Inspired by Catch-22, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Mental Health Issues, Mitaka is basically Yossarian in this, Poor Dopheld Mitaka, slightly cracky, toxic workplace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 15:18:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19231744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esmethewitch/pseuds/Esmethewitch
Summary: Mitaka's last medbay examination results aren't looking good. By all rights, he should be sent home or at least get a couple of weeks off. Hux disagrees.





	Catch-55

Dopheld Mitaka stood before General Hux’s desk and willed his knees not to shake. He presented the datawork to his superior officer like a dead rat on the end of a shovel, holding the datapad in one outstretched arm and looking away when the other man took it. “There it is, sir.”

General Hux adjusted the angle of his cap and glared at the rows of filled-in blank lines and checked boxes. “What is the meaning of this, Lieutenant Mitaka?”

Mitaka cringed. “The forms are self-explanatory, sir. They are the results of my latest medbay evaluation. I am displaying some symptoms of clinical anxiety and depression, I’m told. Given my less than optimal mental condition, I should not be in charge of heavy machinery like ventral cannons.” The fluorescent lights beat down upon them, making Mitaka’s eyes hurt. Force, he wanted to leave this office, this ship, this pfassking Galaxy. That was why he’d gone and had that medbay evaluation.

Hux raised one orange eyebrow. “I see. So, what are you supposed to do instead?”

Here it was. Time to stand up for himself and his right to obey medical advice. “Recuperate planet-side for a couple of weeks. Remove myself from the sources of stress and anxiety.”

His general leaned over the desk like a nexu about to pounce. “Is this a ploy to get shore leave? Because if it is…”

“No, sir. I explained my stressors to my therapist, and they said that the best thing for me was to take a break from them. For my sanity, they said. And it’s important that everyone operating battleships and cannons and things is fully sane.”

“And your main stressor is…”

“Kylo Ren. Every shift I find it difficult to work because I fear being choked and thrown against a wall. And only last week, Chief Petty Officer Unamo was…”

“Choked and thrown against a wall, I know,” Hux interjected. “I signed the incident report and her medbay admittance forms before I gave them to the HR department. Unamo wanted to press sexual harassment charges. I told her that the choking did not seem sexual to me, but as sexual harassment does carry a heavier penalty than regular harassment and I am told that some people view choking as foreplay”, and here Hux gave a shudder, “I do understand her reasoning. But we are unable to take formal disciplinary action against Ren in the first place, alas.” At this juncture, he poured himself a small glass of brandy from the decanter at his desk. He did not offer one to Mitaka. Typical. “So, you are claiming that you are mentally unfit for duty as an officer of the First Order?”

Why did he have to dance circles around this man? “Yes, sir. I am.”

Hux pointed one finger accusingly at him. “And there, Lieutenant Mitaka, is the absolute proof that you are sane and competent, therefore fit for duty as one of the First Order’s best.”

“Sir?” Mitaka responded, flabbergasted.

General Hux took another sip of brandy. “Yes, if you were truly insane, and a danger to yourself and others, you would have enjoyed this working environment. Volunteered to deliver news to Ren. Relished the possibility of death, the disorder that the man leaves in his wake. But you don’t. You are well-adjusted and fit for duty.”

“That’s...that’s not how psychological diagnoses work, sir.” Here, Mitaka was on firmer ground. He was a pre-med student once, leaving the track in favor of data engineering when he realized he was too withdrawn to survive listening to people talk about their problems on a daily basis.

Hux steepled his fingers, grimly. “That may be so, Mitaka, but I am not citing medical science. I am taking guidance from an old regulation stemming from Imperial times, and still in use today. Protocol 55. Also known as Catch-55. If an individual expresses desire to avoid danger, they are truly sane and in possession of functioning self-preservation instincts. I cannot legally remove you from duty on the grounds of psychological illness. Because only someone truly sane questions their sanity.”

“That’s...that’s stupid, sir.”

“Is that insubordination, Lieutenant?” His green killer’s eyes focused on Mitaka, who was beginning to sweat.

“No, sir. I simply question the validity of maintaining all the old Imperial regulations. After all, many of them were repealed before our time, and for good reason. ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, and Don’t Kriff Anyone at All, Ever, Just to be Safe’ devastated morale, removed capable officers from command, and inhibited all efforts to establish some kind of public health program because nobody would tell the medbay anything. Obviously, that’s not around anymore, and the legal definition of marriage has changed. Same with the requirement for senior engineering officers to wear long cloaks. Those got caught in things and strangled people. Why do we keep to old protocols designed by people with limited scientific or psychological understanding, sir? I thought the First Order was better than the Empire.”

Now Hux poured him a drink, and placed it in his hand. Mitaka watched him do it and saw that it was from the same decanter of brandy, and that it was offered to him in a glass identical to Hux’s. It probably wasn’t poisoned. He took a sip. “Thank you, sir.”

“We keep that protocol because without it, we’d have nobody manning, womaning, or non-binarying the bridge at all.” Mitaka let his gaze slide down his general’s neck, and he saw the outline of a hand-shaped bruise. They finished their drinks in silence.

The next day, Mitaka had to deliver another bad piece of news to Kylo Ren. He had to tell him that the Scavenger girl could now, according to some reports, use Force-Lightning. This was a power that even the Master of the Knights of Ren (although that band of fighters might well be imaginary) did not possess. He handed over the intelligence report, a piece of work with atrocious spelling and grammar penned by the unreliable agent known only as “KJ”. That seemed to be a thing for independent contractors employed by the First Order, Mitaka noted. Before DJ the Slicer, there was Big TJ the Uniform Supplier. And after him, MJ the caterer. Ren read it, and smashed his fifth helmet of the week into the wall in a rage. Mitaka rolled his eyes. Kriff, he hated his work and his life. Ren finished the destruction of the wall, and turned to Mitaka. He braced himself for the feel of invisible hands around his throat. For the sixth time this month. Then, something broke inside of him.

“If Darth Vader could see you now, he would whip your arse and send you home to your mother.” Best to get it over with sooner than later.

The newly helmetless Supreme Leader gaped at him as though a mouse-droid had spoken. “What did you just say to me?”

“You heard it. Sir. Vader never destroyed his own machinery. And he had a perfectly cordial relationship with Tarkin. He had class.”

That was the last thing he remembered clearly. Lights danced before his eyes, and he thought he could hear his hyoid bone creaking under the pressure of Ren’s Force nonsense. Could hyoid bones even creak? In the distance, he could hear someone shouting: “That’s Lieutenant Mitaka, you cretin! Put him down this instant!” But it didn’t matter. They were far, far away. Maybe even in the next Galaxy. All went dark, and he fancied that he saw the lines of code he worked on earlier that day scrolling up on a black screen, too fast for him to read. Funny. They were in an unusual yellow font. The screen was glitching too, spotted with white flecks.

When he came to, he was in the medbay, tethered by an IV drip. Kriff, his neck hurt. General Hux towered over him. Mitaka tried to say something, but he lost it in a whimpering puff of air.

“They had to rebuild your trachea,” Hux told him. “They say you’re lucky to be alive.”

 _Am I, though?_ Mitaka wondered.

“You’ll have to stay here for a while,” Hux went on. “I’ll send you over the latest datawork as soon as I can sneak it past the doctor. To take your mind off things.”

Mitaka attempted to laugh, but he couldn’t.

“Work is beastly, as always,” Hux muttered. “Kriffing Ren can’t do anything right, Captain Peavey saw fit to send off a mess of incomplete files to me, and I haven’t even started planning for the office Life Day party yet, we’ve got to have it, never mind that half the staff here don’t even celebrate Life Day…”

For all Hux’s whining, he didn’t seem too unhappy about it. Oddly, Hux thrived under pressure, in Mitaka’s eyes. Give him a close deadline, a battle in space, or an unwanted colleague, and he would take charge with single-minded dedication. When he was forced to take a holiday once, Thannison reported that the man occupied himself with pacing the resort, swatting bugs, and complaining about the inefficiency of the mandatory three-course dinner. He didn’t enjoy his vacation. He craved battle. He craved danger. His self-preservation instincts might be lacking, given how often he talked back to the Supreme Leader. Mitaka wondered what that said about Hux’s sanity, and then by extension the future of the First Order under him. In Academy, he’d been trained to think of the enemy as the one who would get him killed. No matter which side he was on.


End file.
